Fear Itself
by KBoz
Summary: A deeper look into the possible phobias of the Hetalia nations, based off of historical events and popular headcanons that seem to have developed in the show- because even the strongest have something to be afraid of, even if that fear is of fear itself.
1. Astraphobia

Sometimes there would be days when England would have nightmares. Sometimes he went weeks without them, others years. It was never a constant thing.

At a certain point-and he couldn't remember when it was, now—he had taken someone's advice and written them down. He had a book; it was a small, leather-bound journal with yellow pages and creases in the paper. The thing was small enough to fit into a pocket, no thicker than the average man's wallet. For some reason, he never left home without it tucked into the inside pocket of his coat. England really didn't think that it made much sense. Half of the time, he didn't even have a pen with him.

Curiously enough, he never read it.

There would be days when he would pick it up and leaf through the book, fast enough that he couldn't read the words but could see every ink blot and tea stain that marred its pages. If he was to be totally honest with himself, he had no idea what was written inside. His trembling hands may have been the ones to write the words, but his mind seemed to have buried the memories a long time ago. So the book stayed mysterious. Unopened. Almost sacred. There was a part of England that was afraid of the thing.

But one thing stayed constant in the book. In the right hand corner of each marked-up page, there was a date scrawled in loose script. And England could swear on his very life that each and every time that he had picked up a pen and put it to the pages there had been thunder. Rolling thunder that sounded like waves crashing against cragged cliffs in the midst of a storm. Roaring in his ears and reducing him to a shell of empty emotion until the storm moved on and the thunder had died overhead. And when the danger did pass and he was alone again, he would wrap his arms around himself and the tears would flow because he remembered.

And he would thank God that he was alone, so that the silent sobs and the words murmured into the darkness wouldn't be heard by anyone. So that he wouldn't be a burden.

It was so childish that he would almost laugh through his tears. _Thunder. _England himself had stayed awake many a night with America when he was younger, explaining the frightening sounds and singing away the tears with a lullaby about a father protecting his children through a storm.

He still remembered the words. Some nights he wondered whether they were scribbled somewhere within the pages of the notebook, the overflow of his heart onto the sheets in his moments of weakness and fear and vulnerability. But he never checked. No simple lullaby could sing away the tears now.

There was a part of him that was afraid to; afraid that whatever was in the book would suddenly bring the weight of the world crashing down on his shoulders once more. Afraid that somehow, by reading the looped script that had painted its way shakily across the pages, it would be those years again and the world would fall away around him into destruction and the screams of his people as they ran.

He hasn't written in the book for quite some time now. But it is always there, always constant. In a way, it's almost comforting.

_Thunder._

England never could forget how much it sounded like the Blitz.


	2. Sedatephobia

There was complete silence in the conference room, and America was made uncomfortably aware of the clammy feeling in his hands and the cold sweat creeping its way up his neck.

The other countries didn't seem to have noticed. For those that were taking the meeting seriously, their eyes were fixed on the manila folder in front of them and the papers within. Had America actually been paying attention, he might have actually cared what was in them. Instead, he tugged on his collar nervously and tried to focus on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. It was eerie, all of the nations sitting around the same long table and none of them saying so much as a word. Not like it bothered America or anything. Something so silly as silence shouldn't bother a hero like him in the least.

But it did.

It started when he picked up the pen that had been lying unused next to the still-closed manila folder. Just a few taps, gentle at first. They made a light thudding noise against the wood of the conference table. It soothed the claustrophobic feeling that he was getting from the quietness permeating the room. America glanced around the table out of the corners of his eyes, searching for some kind of glare of disapproval from one of the other countries. He was both surprised and relieved that he didn't find one; soon enough his pen was tapping out the rhythm of some rap song he didn't bother to remember the name to and the silence didn't bother him so much anymore.

America had realized his constant desire—no, _need—_for noise just a few decades ago. Maybe seven or so, if he started as far back as the second World War. It had never been a problem before—in fact, America recalled, when he was younger he wouldn't be able to fall asleep unless it was completely quiet. Now he couldn't fall asleep without his iPod turned up on full and his headphones tucked neatly in his ears. If he didn't have music to fall asleep to, he could lie awake for hours just staring at the ceiling with eyes almost frantically wide and his heart racing until his body was physically unable to stay awake and made the decision to rest for him. Whenever he did fall asleep, it felt like his dreams happened in the middle of a 20's silent movie and he was terrified of the memories they would bring.

There had been so many. Too many. Too many funerals, too many burials, too many memorials. So many of his people had _died _fighting, and he had promised himself that he would remember them all.

He would arrive in uniform. No one ever noticed him. They never asked him what his relation was to the deceased, how he knew their parents—nothing. After a while it just became him going through the motions. Shaking hands with the family, offering condolences. After a while, he didn't shed any tears when the bugler would play "Taps"—not because he didn't care but because he cared too _much, _and he no longer had it in him to cry. He would just stand there in silence, officer's hat held in steady hands as the funeral procession passed him by. He wouldn't push his way to the front. But if someone looked back as the rest of the world began to spin on, they would see a young man with sandy brown hair dressed in military garb standing in front of the grave. Almost like a statue, until he would bend down and place a single black poplar blossom on the freshly overturned soil.

Over time, he'd associated silence with death. With loss. With grief. And there's a part of him that's still afraid of it all.

Because silence is for the fallen.


	3. Hemophobia

Russia's scarf had once been white.

The gift from his big sister had been his younger self's pride and joy. Ukraine used to laugh whenever he went teetering off with the far-too-large piece of fabric wrapped around his little neck, and its frayed ends clutched tightly in his pudgy hands. He would show the scarf to total strangers as they passed, his face beaming and his nose and cheeks rosy from the frost that had escaped the scarf's protection.

"_I got this gift from my big sister Ukraine! It is nice and soft, __да?"_

He never once took it off. When he was small enough to do so, Russia would wrap the scarf around himself as a makeshift blanket and brave the cold with just its silky fabric for comfort while he slept. When he woke up, it would be strewn all about his bed, somehow wrapped around a bedpost, or his ankle, or a pillow. It never bothered him, though. As far as Russia was concerned, the scarf was perfect; he loved even more that it was the color of snow.

But snow never stays perfect forever, does it?

The first time it had happened, Russia had been too young to understand. The shouts and gunshots and clashing of swords had sent the little nation into a terrified panic. He was caught in the midst of something too big for his mind to grasp, and it felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out. There was noise all around and suddenly the snow was turning red and Russia was too terrified to run.

So he collapsed into the scarlet snow, pressing his little hands to his ears to try and force out the deafening chaos outside of the safe little haven of his mind. Russia didn't even realize that he was crying, because the hot tears poured from his tightly shut eyes and froze on his cheeks, never reaching the reddened ground and world that he was trying so desperately to escape. And slowly, surely, the blood reach the last of the untainted snow—his scarf.

And white became scarlet.

Ukraine and Belarus found him days later, still curled in on himself on the abandoned battlefield, surrounded by red.

"_Brother, wake up!"_

"_We are here, brother, it is alright. We are going to take you home."_

Russia's terrified eyes opened and behind them something seemed to have fallen away. He sat in the sea of red and stared at the crimson of the scarf that he held in his tiny hands. Then his eyes rose to the battlefield drenched in blood and his eyebrows knit together ever-so-slightly, and he wiped the frozen tears from his cheeks, not even noticing the streaks they left on pale face.

His heart was beating rapidly and his eyes were wide and his hands shook as he reached out for Ukraine's comforting warmth. It wasn't until the question entered his mind that he realized he was afraid. Terrified.

"_Sister?"_

Russia gripped his sisters' hands tighter as they carried him away from the battlefield.

"_What happened to the snow?"_


End file.
